


Wherever the Wind Takes Us

by queenlunatic



Series: Zutara Week 2019 [5]
Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Adventure, Angst, Day 5, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, I have enough ideas and situations but no plot though, Prompt - Youth, Romance, Zutara Week, Zutara Week 2019, coming of age finding yourself fic, if it does turn into a multi-chapter then the tags go as following, katara being the badass that she always is, maybe some smut, otherwise they're just a jumble of ideas, tags will be updated if fic is updated, this one shot might turn into a multi-chapter fic, whoops, zuko being an awkward turtleduck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2019-08-01
Packaged: 2020-07-29 00:40:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20073277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenlunatic/pseuds/queenlunatic
Summary: “Where would we go after the South Pole?”She gives him that dimpled smile that nearly undoes him every time. “I was thinking we could head on over to the Southern Air Temple. Aang will be there, we can stay for a little bit and then just … wherever the wind takes us.”“Wherever the wind takes us sounds like a plan,” he puts an arm over her shoulder and she tucks her head beneath his chin._____Later that night, in her rooms she teaches him how to pray to La and he in turns teaches her a traditional Fire Nation prayer said before one leaves to travel.They crack open a bottle of sake and he toasts, “To our youth.”“To our youth,” she echoes.Maybe time will be kinder to them there. Maybe those two years will be long enough that they feel endless. He already knows the blues of the ocean and sky will feel more welcoming than the stifling enclosure of the reds he will rule over when those two years are over.He knows that those blues will hold him, as they look over at him and his heart speeds up against his ribcage.





	Wherever the Wind Takes Us

**Author's Note:**

> The amount of ideas I have for this one-shot going forward are so many. But I also have another series that I haven't focused on in weeks (writer's block amiright?) sooooo, this fic might not be updated for a while ... or ever. As it stands, please enjoy!

* * *

Zuko knows that it’s been about a week since the war has ended. But time in a place where there is no longer any war seems to pass differently. He rests on a large, canopied bed, and is covered by silk sheets. The windows are open and rising sunlight streams in. He can hear the birds chirping. Outside his hall he can already hear the bustle of servants and his guards moving to and fro. The palace is coming alive. The world outside is alive. 

But Zuko, well he doesn’t feel so alive. He has to rest because of the scar on his chest. A lightening wound inflected by his own sister. His own little sister who is probably somewhere in the lower dregs of the palace, sedated and heavily guarded. He will have to make arrangements for her future accomodations later. She might no longer hold any claim to the throne, but she is still of the Royal Family, she is still his sister, and he still loves her. 

He sits up, muscles protesting and joints creaking. He’s seventeen and already he has pains that no teenager should have. The scar on his chest protests the loudest. He ignores it, as he ignores most other pains in his life. Life continues on. 

But time in a new blooming era of peace is … weird to him. He eats, three meals, hearty and full of spice. A far cry from the grainy meals on his ship, the skipped meals or the measly handfuls of berries he could salvage from his days as a banished prince, the less than promising meals as a tea server in Ba Sing Se, or even the lovingly prepared, but very simple meals from his days training the Avatar. 

He rests. He finally rests on a nice warm, and spacious bed, and it doesn’t feel right. His mind is too aware of every single sound, every movement. He’s heard the medics say-or at least he’s overheard them say while he pretends to sleep-that he had fits, convulsions almost, because every little noise would wake him when he should have been sleeping to heal. 

And this room itself, it’s just too … big. And it’s too red. The walls remind him more of blood than anything else. Somehow, he’s even noticed the furniture, too gaudy, too golden, too much of everything. 

And time. Well time passes all too slowly especially when on bed rest. 

He eats, he sleeps, he notices more things wrong with his room, he’s attended to by medics, then he’s attended to by Katara, he meets with Uncle and some trusted advisors, and that’s it. 

He feels the need for more. So much more. 

He rests his head on the back of his-all too much too golden too gaudy-headboard and exhales. 

*

“Is there any news?” he asks. The tray before him forgotten as he looks at Katara. 

She sits cross legged before him. Her dress is a quickly repurposed robe from Azula’s own closet that fits some places a little more snuggly than others (he has avert his eyes from those places quickly) and her hair is down. Gone are her hair loopies, one of them was singed along with other chunks of her hair, and the rest of it is a mix of tangled curls and uneven ends. 

Her face is tight with emotion. He’ll take that as “no” then. 

He places on his hands over hers, practically enveloping it. Has she always been that petite? 

“We’ll hear from them soon. You saw the light …”

“I know.” She intwines her fingers with his. “I’m just scared.” 

There’s unshed tears behind her eyes. 

“Me too,” he admits. 

She’s in his arms, settling against his chest, sobbing before the day can even begin. Mustering all his strength he picks her up, and she’s so light that he doesn’t even strain. 

Has she been eating? Her face looks more gaunt, and where her hands have wrapped themselves around his neck he thinks he can feel her wrist bones jutting out. He has have a mind to set her down and make her eat. She needs her strength. He’s not the only one who needs to heal. 

But he’s weary and he can’t stand the sight of this place anymore. The black of eyes closed seems to be more preferable to these blood walls. 

The side of the bed dips as he settles Katara in. She’s no stranger to sleeping in this room. The first three days of his healing she spent them by his side, not letting anyone near him. 

She’d been nearly feral, he’d heard the medics say, not eating, not sleeping, not even tending to the burns alongside her arms until he had awoken. Guilt settles into his chest. 

After propping a pillow under her head, he leans over her to kiss her brow, in a sign of gratitude for healing him, in a sign of affection for being his friend, and in a sign of love because he thinks he may love her after all of what they’ve been through together. 

“Please stay,” she whimpers, “here in bed with me. I can’t--”   
  
I can’t be alone, he finishes for her. He can’t be alone either. 

He nods and she scoots over. The bed could probably fit all of them, him, Katara, Sokka, Suki, Aang and Toph, but right now it’s just them and it just feels so empty. 

He raises up the silk sheets around them as he settles. They should rest. In this time of hectic uncertainty, It’s been a long, dredged out week. 

*

It’s a week and three days before any news reaches Caldera, it takes another half day before a messenger can reach the Imperial City, and another hour before he’s allowed through the Gates of  Amaterasu and given access to the Royal Palace. 

Upon the arrival of the messenger, the palace seems to stop breathing. The servants hide in their rooms, the kitchens, anywhere but the hallways. The guards are on edge. They are scared that this tenative peace will escape them. They are scared that Ozai will return. Zuko has yet to be crowned on the basis that no one knows if the self-styled Phoenix King is still alive and coming back to reclaim the Fire Nation. 

The ministers, advisors, and Sages sequester themselves in the throne room where Zuko, behind an imposing wall of fire sits and waits. It’s the first day he’s been allowed out of his room but the room he’s currently in doesn’t do much for him in terms of comfort either. The only thing that keeps him grounded in the moment is the fact that on his right his Uncle sits, slightly infront, listening with rapt attention to the murmurings of the frenzied council. 

Katara sits on his left. The flames before them dance in her eyes and shadow her skin in a way that makes her look older, features more sharp and harsh. Maybe they have grown older in these past few days, he muses, it certainly feels like ages have past since the last time he’s felt anything like remotely young. 

Katara is rigid, her back is too straight and she cranes her neck to try and make out anything. He takes her hand, places it over his lap, and gives it a gentle squeeze. “Just wait,” he says, “The messenger will be here shortly,” he pauses, sighs, and continues, “we’ll know then.” 

She gives him a single nod. Her mouth is set in a straight line, her jaw is locked, but her eyes betray her defiant expression. They’re too soft, too vulnerable. The only thing that makes her look fifteen. 

The doors open and the silence that fills the room at the whoosh of air seems to snap like an old, frayed rope. 

A lump forms in his throat. Instinctively he grasps Katara’s hand harder and pulls her to him. He needs her closer, he needs the safety that only she can provide for him. The safety of a friend, the safety of someone who can understand. 

It is Iroh that rises and the sets out the wall of fire. The old man squares his shoulders and clears his throat. “Welcome,” he greets. His voice booms and bounces off the walls in an eerie echo. Zuko really hates the throne room more than he could ever put it into words. 

“The Gates of Amaterasu open and welcome you into the Royal Palace,” Iroh announces. “Come now, let us hear your message.” Iroh’s usually warm tone is replaced by the tone of a man born to be a leader, a man that’s commanded armies and lead many great men. 

The messenger, Zuko notes that he can’t be any older than him, looks around. His eyes are wide as he walks in further into the chamber. There are few civilians that can say that they’ve ever seen the throne room. This chamber is typically reserved for members of the Royal Family, very high nobility, and a select group of guards. It’s grandeur is impressive, almost enough to take your breath away. But Zuko finds it suppressing, stuffy, and the basis of many of his nightmares. 

“I bring a message from the Order of the White Lotus,” the messenger begins. His voice is hoarse, an indicator that he was running, and had been running for miles. The sweat slicking his skin is another giveaway as are his dirtied clothes. Zuko wonders how long this man has ran. How many days ago was the actual fate of the world sealed? 

Iroh nods for continuance. 

“The War is over.”   
  
There’s a collective release of tension, breaths, and something else that Zuko can’t name at those words. Some of the ministers look at each other in relief, others in apprehension. The Sages accept the words with a collective bow. 

Besides him Katara has begun to cry silently, the tears streak down her face and land on the silk of her red brocade. He has to steel himself to not do the same. 

“That is excellent news.” Iroh has begun to descend down the dais and at the end he bows to the messenger in respect.

He turns back to Zuko and Zuko--who will not let go of Katara’s hand for fear that he might topple over--stands and brings the waterbender up with him. “A new era for the Fire Nation has begun.” He tries to keep his voice controlled. It reverates off the walls and crashes around them all like a wave. 

It is done. The war is over. He has lived and fought his way back to his crown, his honour, and now he will have to stand as the figurehead for this era of reparation and peace. 

Katara moves her other hand to squeeze his shoulder and smiles up at him. Her eyes are shining with tears, with hope, and with something like growing serenity. She looks beautiful. It takes a lot for him not to embrace her. 

“Come now,” Iroh tells the messenger and begins to lead him out of the room. The ministers and Sages bow as he does so. But when Zuko walks off the dais, leading Katara by the arm, they kowtow and something about that makes him grow restless. 

*

“I suspected that you might have had more to say, The White Lotus is not known for her brevity in messages.” There’s some semblance of mirth in Iroh’s voice, but his eyes are hard and his face is serious. 

Zuko looks over at the messenger, Kozei, and the young man bows his head. “The Grandmaster is correct.” 

Iroh looks over at him, and raises his brow. Zuko closes his eyes prays to Agni that his friends, the little family he found himself, is alive and well on their way here before asking: “Is there any news of the Avatar?” The words form naturally. Years of asking the same thing while sailing on a ship come back and make him experience a short of whiplash. “And those who traveled with him. Sokka, Toph, Suki?” 

Kozei starts, “They’re all alive. They survived. The Avatar was successful. There’s also word that Master Katara’s father, Chief Hakoda of the Southern Water Tribe and all his warriors have survived and are safely in Ba Sing Se with the Earth King.”   
  
The release of emotion is immediate. He feels the remaining coil of tension unfurl and heave itself into the air. Iroh’s shoulders drop and settle into a normal stance. Even the old General had grown weary despite the steely demeanor. He too knew loss, and he’d hoped that these two children in front of him would experience any more pain at the expense of the war. 

Katara has wrapped Zuko in her arms. She’s crying, loudly, not caring about decorum or anything other that her father, her brother, her people and her friends are alive. Zuko presses a kiss to her hair, then to her temple, and then on her cheek as she leans away. He leans in to touch his forehead to hers. 

“They’re alive,” he breathes. He smiles and tucks a tendril of choppy hair behind her ear. “They’re alive.”

Someone clears their throats and they’re snapped out of their moment. There is still more to be said. Kozei’s eyes have been cast down. “There is just one more thing, and it pains me to have to say it.” 

Time seems to stand still. Too still. The breeze in the private garden they’ve gone into seems drop. The birds seem to stop singing and all of a sudden if feels as though his entire body is on fire when the words, “Ozai is still alive,” practically tumble out of Kozei’s mouth. 

The only thing Zuko knows next is that he is back in his room on his all too big bed, the curtains have been drawn, his throat is dry, and Katara holds him in her arms and murmuring comforting words into his neck as her hand sits above his scar. 

*

“My father is alive.” 

Iroh hands him his tea with an exhale that’s tired and worn. It settles into Zuko like rocks in his stomach. It’s too early for this. Today was supposed to be a new day where they began to move forward without resistance. But when has Zuko ever had it easy? 

His uncle’s voice is soft and soothing as he apologises, “I’m sorry, my nephew, I did not want it to be this way either.”   
  
“What am I going to do Uncle? My father being alive … it wasn’t supposed to be this way. Aang was supposed too--” he stops, voice breaking. That is still his father, no matter all the pain, all the abuse, that is still his father. 

And now it is up to him to decide his fate. He wants to scream. He wants to set this office on fire. He wants to set this entire palace on fire and watch it burn to the ground. 

“My nephew, I think that it would be best if I handled this.” 

“But Uncle, I’m going to be crowned, the Sages are already making preparations, I have to decide within the next two days and if I don’t there’s the matter of contention. Some are still loyal to my father.” 

“Yes,” his uncle agrees, “we cannot risk a civil war. This Nation would crumble if there was. We’ve already stretched our economy thin with the war. Our farmlands have been reduced to nearly nothing. The reparations to the other Nations will cost us immensely, but my nephew,” and here Iroh reaches over to place his hands on Zuko’s shoulders. “I will take care of that.” 

“Huh? But you said that I-”   
  
“This nation does need a new heart on its throne, but this war …. It hasn’t been fair to you or to your friends. You have fought bravely, earned the marks of warriors, but you have sacrificed your youth to the war of your elders.”   
  
There’s a deep sadness etched into Iroh’s features. “I cannot ask you to give up more of your vitality into ruling a Nation that is near shambles. It was your destiny, Prince Zuko, to restore our country to a golden age, but I believe you also deserve to be young, if only for a little while.”

There is so much pent up from a short life filled with strife, grief, and anger that Zuko feels it come out crashing like a broken dam. He collapses into his Uncle’s arms and cries until his throat is hoarse and there’s nothing more than his inner fire to keep him warm. 

“For how long?” he asks. 

“The Sages have allowed me to take over for you for two years.” There is a resignation in his voice. He must have wanted more, Zuko reasons. “You must be crowned by your eighteenth birthday, as is the standard age of the Fire Lords.” 

Two years. Two whole years. 

“But your teashop? Your dream of retiring to Ba Sing Se?”   
  
“My plans can wait a little longer. My nephew, I would not dream of leaving you alone. Whether my tea shop opens in the Earth Kingdom or the Fire Nation it won’t matter. What matters is that I help you in any way that I can.”   
  
Zuko hugs his Uncle with all the ferocity he can muster. 

“Thank you, Father,” he whispers into the old General’s shoulder.    
  
He hears a sob escape Iroh, “My son.” 

*

Katara sits by the pond, a blue figure surrounded by the greens of his mother’s favorite garden. She’s feeding the turtleducks, those that did not flee, and sprinkling droplets of water over them in a slight drizzle. 

They crowd her, quacking their thanks and gently nuzzling the side of her thigh. She looks serene. She looks younger than he’s seen her look in days. 

She’s gentle as he picks one up and cuddles it to her face. Zuko wishes he was a better painter, wishes he had paid closer attention in his classes, so that he could return to his chambers and paint this scene and have it frozen in time forever. 

He strolls his way over as quietly as he can. His tunics are simple, and his hair is up in a small top knot. He wears no crown and no responsibilities and he feels freer than he’s ever felt his entire seventeen years. 

“Hey,” he rasps. Two turtleducks have made their way over to him, inspecting his boot as it were a threat to their peaceful day. “They like you.”   
  
She grins. “Because I feed and shower them.” 

He kneels next to her. “I think it’s just because you’re you, Katara.”   
  
She snorts and flashes him a crooked smile, “Flatterer, what happened to the bumbling, awkward Zuko?”

“He may have had some sake,” he laughs, “a celebration for the day.”   
  
She quirks a brow up. “I wasn’t invited?”

Oh. Should she have been invited after Iroh was done having him sign the Sage’s agreement? He panics and begins to stutter out an apology. It is Katara’s giggle that stops him.    
  
“I was only teasing, you awkward turtleduck.” The actual turtleduck in her lap has snuggled closer to her belly and gives a quack as her giggle slightly jostles him. “I know what the celebration is.”   
  
Of course. Iroh has taken a great liking to the waterbender, he thinks it would be wrong to assume that he didn’t already speak to Katara about what Zuko was going to tell her. 

“He wants me to take a vacation. Enjoy my youth.” 

She nods. “I think it would be good.” 

Her hand reaches up to cup his scarred cheek. It’s cool and light as she rubs her thumb on the edge where it meets his unmarred skin. 

“You do?”   
  
“Yes. We’re still so young. We’ve were robbed of a normal childhood. We were children fighting a war that wasn’t ours. We’ve won. It’s time for us to take a step back and let the adults fix things.”

Her eyes have set themselves beyond the garden and into the horizon above the sloping roof of the palace. “I volunteered that Sokka and I would take you to the South Pole for a bit, and then you and I could go and travel, explore new places, try new things. Live.”

“You wouldn’t stay in the South Pole?” he questions. She shakes her head, but there’s a hesitation. 

“Don’t get me wrong, I miss my home. I miss the cold, the snow beneath my hands, the night sky and all the lights, the sound of my GranGran’s laughter, I miss everything. But, I also feel like I need to find myself. And I want to see the world. I long to just … get up and go. My father won’t hold me back, I think this is as much his idea as it is Iroh’s.” 

“You’d want to travel with me?” 

She snaps her head to look at him, a little smile playing on her lips. “Of course with you. That week when we went off together ….” she trails off, not wanting to add anymore details of that trip, “I never felt so free to just be myself. I wasn’t anybody’s sister, teacher, or even mother.” 

The turtleduck on her lap has jumped off and is waddling back to the pond. He stands, reaches out a hand for her, and leads her to the bench where they sit beneath the shade of a young budding, cherry tree. 

“I love my brother, and Aang, and Toph, and Suki, but I just want to travel on my own terms. I feel like with you, I can do that. Maybe I’m getting ahead of myself, maybe you’ll say no, but my offer stands, if that’s how you want to spend your vacation.” 

Of course that’s how he wants to stand his vacation. Every cell in his body screams out in a chorus of “yes” and he has to hold himself back from screaming out the word. 

  
“Where would we go after the South Pole?”

She gives him that dimpled smile that nearly undoes him every time. “I was thinking we could head on over to the Southern Air Temple. Aang will be there, we can stay for a little bit and then just … wherever the wind takes us.”

“Wherever the wind takes us sounds like a plan,” he puts an arm over her shoulder and she tucks her head beneath his chin. 

*

Later that night, in her rooms she teaches him how to pray to La and he in turns teaches her a traditional Fire Nation prayer said before one leaves to travel. 

They crack open a bottle of sake and he toasts, “To our youth.”

“To our youth,” she echoes. 

Maybe time will be kinder to them there. Maybe those two years will be long enough that they feel endless. He already knows the blues of the ocean and sky will feel more welcoming than the stifling enclosure of the reds he will rule over when those two years are over. 

He knows that those blues will hold him, as they look over at him and his heart speeds up against his ribcage. 


End file.
